Sucker for Genius
by quill.is.mightier
Summary: "Her heart was not still wildly beating, ten minutes after he had swept away, because that would be utterly absurd. Bloody disgusting. Absolutely juvenile. And oh so very like her...She just wasn't satisfied unless she felt entirely insignificant." Abbey is a sucker for genius. OC.
1. Chapter 1

In the end, the smallest things can be the most earth-shattering. A short conversation with a stranger will alter your entire perspective on life, love, and everything. An early morning peek at the sunrise will crack open your heart for the day's possibilities to seep into. One look from that someone will set your heart racing. One night will start a relationship that lasts a lifetime. One word will end it. One song will bring you to tears. Just one meeting of the exotic stranger with the way with words and the startling insights and the eyes will change your life.

But rarely do we have such philosophical thoughts in our everyday life, and Abbey was nothing short of distraught at her reaction to meeting Sherlock Holmes. Bloody disgusting it was, how quickly she had fawned over him. How she felt like the universe rotated in the opposite direction, if it even buggering rotated (she had always been bollocks with anything very macro-level in school—maybe it was the galaxy that rotated? Or just the solar system?) just from meeting the brilliant and mysterious detective.

It was absolutely juvenile and she had much too much dignity to get swept away by some well-educated, handsome, eloquent, superior, sophisticated, well-dressed, pompous …_so-and-so_. She did _not_ pathologically need the approval of everyone she met, _especially_ intelligent older men. Much too much dignity.

Her heart was not still wildly beating, ten minutes after he had swept away, because that would be utterly absurd. Bloody disgusting. Absolutely juvenile. And oh so very like her.

Who needed a real relationship with a nice, funny, sort of nerdy guy when she could pine after unattainable men who never even noticed her because they were too busy being brilliant? Who needed to feel wonderful and appreciated and beautiful when they could feel like an idiotic lovesick fool? Not Abbey.

And Sherlock Holmes had bloody pointed it out to her. Like that was just allowed. Like you could waltz up to a stranger and point out their highly private, dysfunctional shit when you had no _bloody_ way of knowing about it.

She had gone for coffee. Well, she had gone to a coffee shop to get a hot cocoa because she hated coffee but it was so bleeding cold outside she needed a hot beverage, but she always told her colleagues she was going for coffee, because it was shorter, easier, and honestly just cooler to say. Succinct was good. Succinct avoided rambling, which led to embarrassment.

So she had gone for coffee. The line was insufferably long, of course, so she had gotten out her phone to occupy herself as the queue inched forward. She texted Justin, one of those nice, funny, sort of nerdy guys that happened to work down the hall from her, to be nice and see if he wanted a cup of anything. She flipped her mobile around in her hands, waiting impatiently for the line to move. It was really only a few people deep, but she absolutely loathed waiting around for things. At home, she was practically a slug, she was so lazy and sedentary, but when Abbey wanted something and other people and things held her up, it made her legs dance with restlessness and her skin practically itch.

Her mobile vibrated a response from Justin.

_I think it's better if you concentrate on walking back to the office without mishap. Juggling two cups just isn't a good idea for you, Abs._

Okay. Ha bloody ha. Just because she had trouble opening the door to the building that one time because she had been juggling a bag of take-away and a cup and her purse, didn't mean that she was a clod. She could be very graceful when the situation called for it. She thought.

_Just for that, I'm ordering two cocoas for myself and nothing for you. _

Only a moment later, and one person away from the counter, her phone buzzed again.

_It's your funeral_.

She saw movement ahead of her and stepped forward, about to open her mouth to order as she started typing a scathing reply. Except that she stepped into a person, instead of the empty space she had been expecting. And wasn't saying "empty space" redundant? She'd have to remember that for the future. And perhaps she should be apologizing to the bloke whose coffee she had almost just made him spill instead of thinking about redundant phrases.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so redundant!" she said.

"Er—" the man replied as he turned around and stepped a little to the side to clear the way to the counter.

"Sorry, I mean. I'm so sorry. I was thinking about something…" she had trailed off, flapping her hand at the air to indicate she hadn't been thinking and it wasn't important.

"It's alright. No harm done," he said, holding up his two unspilt cups as evidence. She had nodded and smiled apologetically again, stepping forward to order.

"You can make it up to me by saving me from my flatmate and having your coffee at our table," he said. She turned to him, surprised. Coffee with a stranger? And said stranger's flatmate? Was it some sort of, what did they call it? A pass? She didn't ordinarily get hit on by, well, anyone.

"And how exactly shall I save you from your flatmate? Bring about his untimely demise via spilt coffee?" He had laughed, a real laugh that you rarely saw on a stranger's face, and she decided she couldn't resist the invitation, even though she had no idea why he'd invited her.

"I was thinking conversational distraction, but I think you'd get a knighthood for offing him, frankly," he replied, still smiling.

"Yeah, alright. I'm dying to miss a bit of work," she'd said, and ordered her cocoa. It only took a minute and she was picking it up and following John Watson, as he'd introduced himself, to their table.

"So what do you do, John Watson?" she asked. He didn't look like a professional; he was dressed in a rumpled jumper and jeans that were nice, but not stylish.

"I'm a doctor," he answered. "Mostly."

"Mostly as in didn't finish med school but you get good money for removing kidneys and selling them on the black market?" She hazarded a guess.

"Mostly as in he has an interesting side job," a deep voice interjected. They were at the small round table by the window she hadn't been paying attention to because, dammit, she really don't look where she was going, but that didn't make her a clod. But she was definitely paying attention now, because at the small round table was sat a striking man with the best kind of curly dark hair, intense eyes, an awesome coat, and—

"Cheekbones."

"John, is this more slang that makes no logical sense but that I am somehow expected to understand anyway?"

"Er, no, not that I know of." She flushed as she followed John's suit and took her seat opposite the window.

"Sorry. I meant, what side job, and hi, I'm Abbey." She took a sip of her still way-too-hot cocoa to cover her mortification, but ended up flushing deeper when she had to let her tongue flop out of her mouth to cool off from the scorching it took.

"John, why do you insist on trying to find romantic entanglements everywhere we go? How can I think with them hanging about all the time?"

John put his head in his hands, elbows on the table, and sighed. "Sherlock, why do you ruin everything? I just thought it'd be nice to ask her to sit with us. Stop being rude." John looked up from his hands with the most perfect rendition of a long-suffering expression that Abbey had ever seen. Even though the dark-haired man had made her feel uncomfortable with that romantic entanglement bit, she smiled. John was just so…cute.

"Abbey, this is Sherlock Holmes, world's biggest git." Sherlock inclined his head toward her with an expression something vaguely akin to _I do these things because I have to do or John makes more of those faces._ Abbey stuck her hand out to shake his, but then…

"Wait. Sherlock Holmes? The resurrected phony-who-wasn't-a-phony-maybe?" Sherlock shot John a glare that was much less ambiguous. _See what you've done? Gone and brought an idiot over here._ She blushed. "Sorry, I never followed. Not much of a newsreader, you see. Terribly irresponsible of me, I know, but how anyone can bring themselves to read that depressing drudge everyday when there's fantasy to read is beyond me. I'm not so self-controlled. Oh dear," she ended with a heartbroken expression.

"What? What is it?" John seemed anxious. Abbey turned toward Sherlock.

"I'm afraid we can't be friends. I'm afraid we might not even be able to sit at the same table together." She pulled a chagrined, regretful face. He slowly turned his head away from the window where he had undoubtedly been trying to ignore her existence and looked at her. Right in her eyes. She hadn't known that not very many people looked her right in the eyes when she talked until then, because it was so startling that he had.

"Infamous frauds unnerve you," he said. She couldn't tell if it was a question.

"No, I tend to disbelieve conspiracy theories. It's easier for your story, what little I know of it, to have been true than to have been elaborately constructed, crumbled, and now exonerated by the government. No, I'm afraid I can't associate with geniuses."

"Too fragile an ego," he said with the barest squint of his eyes. Definitely not a question this time. She had laughed then.

"Right in one. You see, being smart is about all I've got going for me and I'm much too insecure to hang round with geniuses all the time," she informed him with a smile.

"If that were true, you wouldn't be saying it," he replied.

"Oh, it's true, alright. My self-esteem comes crashing round my ears when I associate with you off-the-charts IQ types. What's less true is that I don't associate with those types. I find them absolutely fascinating and can't rip myself away, no matter how moronic and useless it inevitably makes me feel." John laughed at that.

"Cheers," he said, lifting his cup up to drink.

"Your father pressured you to excel in school. Put you down—no, praised you for it. So much that you came to solely identify yourself with your intelligence. Being around those who are potentially more intelligent than you causes you to question your self-worth. Your inability to overcome this self-consciousness mixed with the fact that you are aware of, and disapproving of, that same insecurity is likely the culprit behind your lack of ambition in your career. You're a glorified secretary though you're highly overqualified, and oh, it affects your personal life as well. You've had your share of interested parties, but no serious relationships, perhaps because you are, as you said, drawn to unattainable geniuses," he said, eyes boring into her. She looked away, to John.

"Does he explain or are we just supposed to congratulate him on being brilliant?" John opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock beat him to it. He spoke like an oncoming train, coming at you with no pause, relentlessly chugging forward, too fast to dodge.

"Justin from work is obviously fond, by the rate at which he returns your texts despite his being at work. You display no anxiety in waiting for his return text, nor hesitation in how to phrase your responses, ergo you do not reciprocate the interest. His admiration is not the only you've received, based on rapidity of response—you've lightly flirted before. You don't think it's flirting because you don't take those things lightly, or you would've had a boyfriend before, so you're too self-conscious to believe he's interested, and only engage in flirtatious conversation subconsciously. I know you've never had a boyfriend because you were obviously surprised when I implied that John's invitation was romantic in nature, which it obviously was, and which you would have known had you ever had past experience. Your pride in your intelligence and subsequent insecurity could only have developed at a young age, and fathers are statistically more likely to openly place worth on concrete achievements. Your own words gave away your insecurity, and your secretarial status was obvious by the callous on you middle finger, a result of extensive writing, your business casual attire, and the fact that you have a letter waiting to post sticking out of your pocketbook with your firm's name. However, your keychain professes you an alumna of Cambridge, where you likely studied literature, based off your interest in fantasy fiction and your assumption that news is primarily read and not watched."

"Yeah. Definitely can't be friends with you. Do you breathe?"

"What a ridiculous question. John, make her go away." Her face was red as a cherry, she was so embarrassed about having been read like an open book—and for having been understood better than she often understood herself. Was Justin really interested in her? The thought had occurred to her, but had never really taken hold. Was she really that insecure?

But it was just so _clever_. So unbelievably clever.

"Does he always show off like that? He clearly thinks, or pretends to think, that explaining what is so _obvious_ to him to mere mortals like us is utterly beneath him, yet he did it with minimal prompting. Looks like I'm not the only insecure one," she said with a sly smile. "But, yeah, alright, I'll give you your ego-boosting. Bloody brilliant it was. Just genius. Could you read my texts from across the room? What, do you have 20/5 vision? Oh, and I have had a boyfriend, but just the one and it was years ago, so I'll still give you credit there. Just fantastic. I can feel my self-worth dipping as we speak."

John groaned from his seat. "Don't say things like that to him. He's unbearable as it is." She grinned in response.

"Sorry, Johnny boy. I told you, I'm a sucker for genius." She checked her watch and decided it was time she headed back to her job as a glorified secretary. Standing up to leave, she felt relieved to escape the omniscient eyes of Sherlock Holmes, but also very disappointed to go. She was sure she'd never meet another like him, and she felt like she was letting something wonderful slip away. Which was silly, because he wasn't hers to let slip away. Not even remotely.

"Thanks for the table, fellas. Gotta get back to that grindstone. And thanks for the show," she added with a crooked smile to Sherlock, her version of a wink because she couldn't pull winks off, but she felt it was imperative that she show she wasn't bothered in the slightest by his cracking open her skin and showing her insides to the world. And, oddly, she didn't mind, not in the way you might think. She minded that her insides weren't as good as she thought they should be, and that her skin was so easily crackable. But the fact that he _had_ cracked it open… well, that had just been sexy.

Abbey. Poor, messed up Abbey. Couldn't go out with Justin. Had to pine over college professors and married bosses and Sherlock Holmes. She just wasn't satisfied unless she felt entirely insignificant.


	2. Chapter Dos

She googled him that night. Combed through news articles, pretended not to stare at the pictures (what a horrid hat), and wondered. Wondered why someone so brilliant made a living as an amateur, if you could call it that, detective. He could be solving the mysteries of the universe instead of homicides. It seemed such a small occupation for such a great man. She had to know why. She just had to. It was eating her up. All she could think about was that face, and those legs, and that unhappy air about him.

She had to see him again. Which left her three options. A—go to their flat and ask John out for a cuppa. That one felt dishonest because she was interested in Sherlock, not John. Although it was sort of arrogant of her to assume that John would even say yes, except that Sherlock had said that thing about romantic entanglements… but maybe he had just been flapping his gums.

B—hire Sherlock to solve some mystery for her. She'd have to invent a mystery. Fooling Sherlock wouldn't be easy. In fact, it would be impossible.

And C—commit a crime Scotland Yard would need Sherlock's help solving. This plan had the benefit of not going straight to Sherlock. That might seem desperate.

Needless to say, she decided on option A, though she had some fun fantasies about option C. The case of the missing stapler. She'd run in, distraught, unable to find her favorite stapler. His black cape would billow as he turned to stare at her.

"Your stapler? Interesting. John, we'll take the case!"

"Wait, really?" Of course John would be stumped. He wouldn't recognize the magnetic attraction between them, an attraction Sherlock himself wouldn't be aware of. Not until later, after he had finally tracked the stapler to her apartment, where she had "accidentally" left it in her dishwasher. He'd turn to her slowly.

"You're the culprit," he'd say in that low rumble. She wouldn't deny it. She'd smirk and say, "Took you long enough." He'd be taken aback, blown away that she could have duped him, for even a short time. He'd be so surprised that, next thing he knew, he'd be kissing her against her counters.

That's where the fantasy falls apart, because she can't decide if he's an inexperienced kisser (he didn't really seem into dealing with other people, and she couldn't imagine him having a girlfriend), or an amazing kisser (he doesn't look like he's bad at anything, and if he can know her college major just by looking at her, he must be good at telling what a girl likes). Neither one seems quite right, and the fantasy dissolves.

* * *

><p>A nice old lady answered the door to 221B Baker St, and Abbey was immediately uncomfortable. She expected her to ask Abbey if she had washed behind her ears and when she was going to settle down with a nice man. Or to immediately suspect that Abbey planned to manipulate her way into Sherlock's life by taking advantage of John's possible feelings for her. Or possibly just John's kindness. Or possibly fail at the entire thing and oh God why was she here she should leave <em>this instant<em>.

Of course, Mrs. Hudson was neither her own grandmother nor a psychic and, after a moment's chatting, Abbey quite liked her.

"Are you a client of Sherlock's?" she asked.

"Oh no, I was actually popping by to see John," she said, ear tips turning pink.

"Bit young for John aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson said in her knowing voice.

"No, I just met him the other day and wanted to, um…"

"Well, darling, don't worry. John insists they're not, _you know_. John has lots of girlfriends. I mean, not _lots_, but he's had girlfriends. Not boyfriends or anything like that." Mrs. Hudson seemed to be under the impression that she was correcting a false impression of Abbey's, when in fact she was only confusing her. It had never occurred to her to wonder if the two of them were, erm, _intimate_, together. She supposed she ought to have. They had been out to coffee together, they worked together, they lived together.

But Sherlock seemed so…well, not straight. He seemed rather like he wouldn't waste time on something so trivial as sex and certainly not on something so sentimental as relationships. But if he were into other people at all, she had a hard time visualizing him with the affable Mr. Watson. Oh, no, it was Dr. Watson, wasn't it? She had glanced at his blog, demonstrating remarkable restraint if you asked her. She had decided it would be exceedingly stalkerish to comb through every website even remotely mentioning Sherlock just days before fake asking out John to be near Sherlock. Too hard to pretend she hadn't memorized every detail of every case. Plus, better to avoid adding fuel to the fire of her newfound obsession for as long as possible.

So, she remained relatively in the dark about most of their cases. Totally not a stalker.

"John's upstairs, dear. I'll just go ahead and let him know you're here. Come along," she said, gesturing to follow her up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was already calling ahead, "Boys! You have a visitor!" Abbey was fairly sure she was having a heart attack. What on Earth made her think that this was a good idea?

The door at the top of the stairs was already open and Mrs. Hudson knocked on the frame and called in again. "Yoohoo!"

"For God's sakes, Mrs. Hudson, just tell Miss Abbey to come in and be quiet!" Mrs. Hudson gasped out something along the lines of, "Really, Sherlock, your manners…" and walked back down the stairs. Abbey swallowed and walked in. Sherlock Holmes was standing in the far corner with a violin at his side and a pencil in his hand.

"Composing?" she asked, surprised she had spoken first.

"Editing."

"Editing what?"

"Tchaikovsky," he said. She laughed, and he turned his head to pin her with a stare, as if _how dare she laugh at me, He Who Is Never to be Taken Lightly?_

"Sorry. You're not kidding. Wow. You must be good if you think you can improve on Tchaikovsky. I'm no classical music expert, but even I know he was pretty good."

"Famous and good are not the same," he said, as if that was some revelation.

"Yeah, but still famous after centuries is a pretty good credential for the CV. I'm betting he's pretty good. Good is, however, subjective." Silence. One beat. Two.

"Yes." _Phew, sweep me off my feet, Mr. Holmes_. Not quite the conversationalist when he wasn't laying someone's life bare.

"John isn't here." Also very welcoming, Mr. Holmes was.

"Oh, right," she said, blushing. She hadn't moved from her spot a meter inside the doorway. "I'll just be going then. Serves me right for just popping by, only I didn't have his mobile number, and I just thought—"

"Thought you'd try your hand at amateur seduction with Dr. John Watson to gain access to 221B Baker St in order to satisfy your curiosity about the, how did you phrase it—_the resurrected phony-who-wasn't-a-phony-maybe_?" Okay, definite heart attack now. TIA, at the very least.

"Well _some_one's full of himself," she said in her best "indifferent to your bologna" voice. It was a good thing her mouth seemed capable of working at all times, no matter her mental, physical, or emotional state. Good old, trusty mouth.

"Don't be dull, Abbey. Evasion and denial only work on idiots."

"I'll have you know I did come round to see John. I lost my stapler at work, and I was right fond of the fella, too! I looked everywhere and couldn't find it and got to calling it in my head, 'The Case of the Missing Stapler'. Then it struck me funny, seeing as how I'd only a few days ago happened to meet the world's most famous detective! Then that got me thinking what a nice bloke that Mr. Watson was, only it turns out he's Dr. Watson, and I thought it such a shame that I don't get to know more people because I'm always thinking 'Well, it would be right awkward to just pop by a stranger's flat and ask 'em to lunch', so I decided to hell with awkward, I was going to see if John wanted a cuppa or something!" Look who could spew whole paragraphs of nonsense without breathing now, Mr. Holmes.

Sherlock had been looking at her with the same focused gaze he always seemed to have, and now he angled his body away to set his violin against the corner wall and rest his bow on the music stand.

"I almost believe you," he said.

"Same to you, arsehole," she said, turning to walk down the stairs, although she didn't feel mad at all. She supposed her mouth had conspired with her legs to portray an air of righteous indignation in order to save face. They were such quick thinkers, her mouth and legs.

"Wait," came his voice. Calm, but commanding.

"Yeah?" She didn't turn all the way around. Her legs thought that would be a give-away.

"John will be home any minute. He just went out for tea. He'd be very displeased if he learned I'd scared away a visitor. Especially a, oh how did he put it—_shaggable_ one." She turned the rest of the way around, because shock apparently overrode her legs.

"You're making that up," she exclaimed, her face red as a Maraschino. He lifted an eyebrow. _Whyever would you think that? _She sputtered.

"If he'd _really_ thought that, which I'm not saying he did, then he wouldn't have said that to you! And if he had, which I'm not saying he did, then you wouldn't have told _me_!"

"Whyever would you think that? Any of those things, in fact?" More sputtering on her part.

"Blokes don't tell birds when their mates find them _shaggable!_ Plus, he was so…"

"Nice? Yes, women do seem drawn to John's 'nice guy', wounded soldier, honorable doctor routine. Initially."

"Great, now I'm under the catchall category of _women_, which, by the way you articulate the word, I'm seriously rethinking Mrs. Hudson's insistence that the two of you aren't gay, although I suppose you could be and he not be, but _anyway_ I'm also apparently too stupid to tell if John's actually nice or if he just pretends to get laid? _Which_ he isn't trying to do. Get laid. With me." Okay, now she was standing in Sherlock Holmes' apartment, practically yelling the phrase "get laid". This couldn't have gone worse. Until…

"Uh, Sherlock? Abbey?" John's much less baritone, but so much more welcome (well, would have been welcome had he not been the subject of discussion) voice came from almost directly behind her. Abbey brought her fingers to her temple and closer her eyes.

"You couldn't have said, 'Gee Abbey, what nice points you make, but it appears John is coming up the stairs, so perhaps we can continue this discussion at a later time?'"

"If you hadn't wanted John to overhear, you shouldn't have said it all. Why people insist on hiding their silly feelings, which are so blatantly _obvious_, from each other is beyond me."

"Uh, yeah, hello. Remember me? The one I'm pretty sure I heard you two shouting about when I came up the stairs?" Abbey turned on her heel and smiled apologetically at John. She couldn't tell how red her face was anymore. Once it got to a certain stage, she was entirely desensitized.

"Hi John, Dr. Watson. I popped by to see if you wanted to maybe get a cuppa, but your charming flatmate ensnared me in conversation." John smiled a _Yeah, Sherlock does that and do I even want to know what you were saying about me because it didn't really make sense to me and I think I missed something_ smile.

"Well, I've just gotten some milk, if you'd like to…" he trailed off and gestured to the kitchen. "Actually, no, on second thought, I've no idea what Sherlock's got in there—"

"Decaying fingernails."

"—so _probably_," John ground out, obviously trying to ignore Sherlock's disturbing interjection, "we should go out somewhere. Oh, but not today. Got work in a bit. Tomorrow?" he asked. So nice. John Watson was such a nice man. A little old, for her, as Mrs. Hudson had said, but then again, so was Sherlock. And so was her last crush, her forty-year-old boss. And the one before, her thirty-four-year-old philosophy professor.

"Uh, right," she said, stunned. "Tomorrow." She started to drift toward the door, a little shell-shocked from the entire encounter, when Sherlock again said, "Wait." That snapped her out of it.

"Yes, Your Highness?" she shot at him, voice just a-dripping in sarcasm (good one, mouth). Her false-but-not-quite-entirely-false malice fell away when she swore she saw just the tiniest change in his expression, though. The hint of a amusement pulling at a reluctant corner of his mouth.

"Your mobile. Shouldn't you give John your number? Wouldn't want you to have to 'pop by' unannounced again, would we?" She rolled her eyes and held a hand out for John's mobile, which he fumbled out of his pockets and gave to her. She punched it in and told him he could text her sometime with the details. Then she smiled and left, not looking at Sherlock.

She had a hard time breathing on her tube ride back to her apartment. Talking to Sherlock Holmes put her in a vacuum, where everything but him was sucked away, but you couldn't quite tell until all the air came rushing back in afterward and your lungs couldn't handle it.

And now she had a sort of date with his flatmate, who was lovely, but no Sherlock. Oh what a tangled web we weave…

* * *

><p><strong>AN** Review, please? Multiple story alerts and 0 reviews make me sad. Especially since I know I pick fics to read based off how many reviews they have (lots=good, few=bad). So I would adore you if you took a sec to tell me your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** Prepare for way too many italics and lots of untagged dialogue because I'm lazy! Also, totally messed with my formatting for the texts, and I'm still lazy, so hope you can decipher it anyway...

* * *

><p>A date? Ooh la la. Justin?<p>

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

No, not Justin!

Not your boss? I thought he was married!

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

God, Myra, no! I'm over him.

I'd rather you were under him.

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

Why do I even bother?

Because I'm your only friend.

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

I've got other friends.

When was the last time you saw them?

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

A…while ago.

Yeah.

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

So who's the guy?

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

Just a nice bloke I bumped into at a coffee shop.

You hate coffee.

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

Well, I wasn't getting coffee.

Then why were you in a coffee shop? Pulling?

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

No, I don't go out pulling like you, slag. I was getting cocoa.

Make sure you shave your legs. Don't want Mr. Coffee Shop hunting through the Forest of Dean.

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

He's not going to be seeing my legs!

Better safe than sorry….

_Sent from Myra's iPhone_

Abbey didn't respond to Myra's last text. The best way to punish her was to deprive her of attention. And Dr. Watson was most certainly _not_ going to be seeing her legs tonight. Unless she wore the green skirt and black boots, which would leave a little leg showing, but she thought that wearing them in the cold weather would send the wrong message, of the _I'd like you to shag me later_ sort, so she was still pretty sure he wouldn't be seeing her legs tonight. Because she wouldn't be wearing the skirt and boots, because she definitely wasn't shagging him. Myra might do that kind of thing once in a while, but Abbey had only ever slept with her college boyfriend and she had barely been on any dates since then, much less one… see her legs, if you know what she means.

Sometimes she thought about it, a quick shag. It seemed to give some of her friends (yes, she did have other friends) confidence, reassurance, fun… a lot of things. But also regret, and sometimes shame. And emptiness. It didn't seem worth it. Plus, she couldn't imagine letting a stranger see her naked. Bleuch.

She decided on thick black leggings, brown boots, and a green shirt you could barely see under her favorite brown bomber jacket and green scarf. She felt it was an outfit combined awesomeness, comfort, and relative style. She checked the message John had sent her the day before, as though she hadn't read it ten times already.

Angelo's for a cup of tea and some lukewarm breadsticks? Tomorrow at 5? –JW

She hadn't known where that was, so she had texted him for an address and gotten it. And now it was 3:30 and she had a whole hour to wait before she could leave in order to be there five minutes early, like a huge nerd. She thought about doing something different with her hair, but thought about how long it would take to spritz it wet, blow dry, and then wrangle into some sort of wave, and abandoned the idea in exhaustion.

Straight, boring, brown hair it was. She blew out a sigh and flopped back on her bed and stared at her ceiling fan, which was turning slowly, despite the cold weather outside. She couldn't stand a stuffy apartment and left the fan on most days, much to the bewilderment of all her (two) guests.

Five minutes later she sat up and snatched her book off the bedside table and flopped back down to read. A minute later, she rolled to her side to get more comfortable. Then, she tried the other side. Then she tried lying on her back again, except she tossed her legs in the air for good measure. Then she sat against her headboard. Then she got up and sat in an actual chair. Then she gave up and went to Angelo's an hour early, planning to read until John got there; she thought she could pull off the, "Oh, John, hi, I didn't see you come in. This? Oh, well, since we were meeting up here anyway, I thought I'd catch on some reading here instead of the coffeehouse. How are you?" Totally smooth. Not nerdy or pathetic at all.

* * *

><p>A short while later she was swinging open the door into Angelo's, stamping her feet and regretting her leggings, wishing she had worn something slightly more practical. Like radiators. Trying to shake the cold redness off the tip of her nose, she scanned the restaurant to find a little booth or something comparably cozy she could occupy.<p>

Click. Her eyes drew to the table by the window, to her left and almost behind her, and it was like _target acquired and locked._ Her head tilted marginally to the right in question. He seems marginally surprised as well. Okay, not surprised, exactly, as he obviously would have seen her coming through the window, but he did seem a little curious why she was here an hour early.

Wait. An hour early for her date with _John._ Why was _he _here? Surely he knew that they had a date. Sherlock wouldn't show up at the same place his flatmate was having a date _accidentally._

"Sherlock? Why are you here?"

"I had little else to do before our appointment, so I came a few hours ago in the hopes I would observe a crime being committed. Of course, no such good luck, unless you count extreme stupidity as a crime, which, unfortunately, the British government does not."

"We don't _have_ an appointment," she hissed at him, unwrapping the scarf from around her neck. The restaurant was well heated. As was her face, courtesy of interaction with Sherlock. He sighed and looked back out the window, probably hoping for a body to fall spontaneously from the sky.

"So simple-minded. I can't tell if I pity or envy you." She gritted her teeth and tried not to punch him. She'd never punched anyone before, but had it on good authority that it hurt a lot, so she wasn't eager to bruise her fist on Sherlock's arrogant, beautiful face.

"Survey says neither." He gave a _you silly humans and your unintelligible garble_ look. She liked saying things he didn't understand, though, so she kept on. "The results are in, and it looks like the audience thinks Sherlock Holmes neither pities nor envies us mortals. In fact, he never thinks of us at all! Not unless we get in his way, in which case he'll spare us some condescension and humiliation. Tell us what he's won, Alex!" She was pretty sure she was mixing metaphors, but he was clueless, so she didn't care. She just couldn't stand how unbearably warm her whole body felt when he was around, like if she didn't let some of the heat out at him, she'd burn up. And even though she was being a right bitch (it could have come out as friendly ribbing, but not with the biting tone she had adopted), when she was _never_ a bitch, it couldn't be more obvious that she was less than a blip on his radar.

"On the rare occasion that I feel the need to understand the colloquialisms of the common people, someone comes along and reminds me how trivial it all is, how trivial _you_ are, thankfully saving me from a tiresome, useless task." The _you_ was a general term, but she was the one who had pointed

"Then why are you here, if I'm so trivial?" Her mouth didn't understand complete humiliation, it only understood having the last word. She vaguely remembered him saying that they had an appointment, which didn't make sense, unless…

"Ah, the girl has got it. No, John never texted you. He's safe at home, watching crap telly, away from you." She didn't want to admit that she didn't understand, so she kept quiet, confident that he would explain his brilliance in time, driven by arrogance. He quirked an eyebrow, clearly aware she had nothing to say.

"He'll contact you soon, in about twenty hours, if I had to guess, to attempt to begin a romantic involvement with you. You will not oblige him."

"John is quite old enough not to need a babysitter—"

"Yes, interesting that you should point that out. He is old enough to get on by himself. Quite a bit older than _you_. Would you like me to guess why you fixate on older men?"

"Don't need you to, I'm quite aware of why," she said through her teeth, though she was partly fibbing. "What I'm less aware of is why you'd want to keep trivial little old me away from John."

"John spends far too much time preoccupied with his dalliances. It distracts from the work, and leaves him in the most insufferable moods when they inevitably end, often due to the amount of time he spends with me. While I try to discourage these relationships in general, I have taken a special interest in ensuring that his pursuit of _you_ does not come to fruition, as there is no guarantee such an association would ever end." What? Was he suggesting that she and John would get married? What on Earth—

"Unlike John's other pursuits, your primary interest lies not with John, but, indeed, with me. The more time and energy he invests in the work and in our association, the closer you might possibly get to me. Therefore, his lack of attention to you in favor of me will not dissuade you from remaining involved with John. Your relationship could continue indefinitely, if we assume from past experience that John would prove too oblivious to notice your true intentions. Furthermore, I have evidence to support the hypothesis that your deception would cause John emotional pain. And that is something I am inclined to discourage.

"Thus, you will not oblige him," he repeated his earlier words slowly, with each consonant carefully pronounced. Her heart had slowed, so instead of its frantic fluttering, it steadily hammered a painful tattoo in her chest. She felt ashamed, even though she had never fully intended John to think their get-together was a date.

"I don't want to date John Watson." He looked triumphant. "I want to be his friend—maybe, I have to get to know him a little better first, but I'm sure if he can bear having you as a friend, then he must be a saint, and I could do with a saintly friend—and you can't scare me off."

"I can."

"You won't."

"I will."

"You might."

"What gives you the notion that I am anything less than completely capable of and committed to preventing you from attaching to John?" Attaching to John? Did he view John's girlfriends as tumors?

"You will drive me away, never to return," I conceded, "but only if your conclusions hold true. If I surprised you or proved you wrong, well you'd have to reevaluate, then, wouldn't you?"

"I'm seldom wrong."

"You were wrong about me wanting to seduce John." When had she sat down? And when had he steepled his fingers beneath his chin?

"I was correct in that you were attempting to establish a relationship with him, with the end goal being an association with me. The detail of intended intercourse is irrelevant."

The flush was back in force when he said "intercourse". What a horrid word for such a fun activity.

"If you're so good at 'deducing' people and their characters, what on Earth would persuade you to believe I would ever engage in casual…_intercourse_," she said the word with sarcasm to cover her discomfort at its ickiness.

"I am also given to understand, from John, in fact, that females prefer the term 'making love'?" He spoke the words in a vaguely curious way, as though he was not particularly bothered whether he got an answer or not. She choked on air and tried to swallow the _how dare he just say things like that's just allowed_ feeling and endeavored to adopt his calm manner.

"I don't know what 'females' prefer," Abbey started, making use of mocking air quotes, "but I prefer 'sex'. Everything else is just…well, it's just gross."

"The act itself involves what most would, under other circumstance, consider 'gross'. People tend to be squeamish about bodily fluids," he pointed out. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to say to that, and as her only reply was something to the effect of, "But it feels so _nice_", she decided not to say anything at all. Then her mouth got the better of her and she said, "Then I guess 'people' spend a lot of their lives uncomfortable, as we are, in fact, made up of fluids."

"Interesting," he responded. One of her eyes twitched. A conversation with the man was impossible.

"What's interesting?" Abbey sighed, resigned to being five steps behind him forever. A small shiver ran through her at _forever_.

"One boyfriend, low self-esteem, willingness to talk about sex, but skirts around it when possible. Willing to flirt with ulterior motives, but unwilling to engage in interc—_sex_, with such. There's a missing factor to explain the paradoxes."

"Um, no there isn't." At this, his eyes slitted (was that a word?) and he removed his hands from under his chin. Mr. Holmes was displeased.

"Some aspects of your behavior and attitudes do not align with others, under the paradigm established from the known information. Ergo, there is a missing factor, which, if known, would alter the paradigm to allow all behaviors and thoughts to be predicted from and explainable by virtue of understanding it."

"You don't honestly think that way," she said, astonished. The candle on the table, providing a greater proportion of the light in the restaurant now that the light outside was fading, highlighted his face from below, which ought to have made him look sinister, but only shaded his eyes and made him more mysterious as he remained silent, not answering her question. As if he needed to look more mysterious.

She took his silence as a _Yes, I do think that way._

"So you think that you could list a few facts about yourself, construct a paradigm, and that, from then on, everything you did would be explainable or deducable from under that paradigm's umbrella?"

"I am extraordinary." He did not move as he said it, not even a shrug to say _What you can do? If it's true, it's true._ It was a never-doubted fact in Sherlotopia.

"So you're paradigm-resistant?" He didn't answer. She supposed a man like him would never answer too many questions about himself. She didn't feel like playing the bare-all, get-nothing game anymore.

"I think we're all paradigm-resistant," she said, and that was the end of that conversation. After a moment of hard staring, Sherlock stood to leave, clearly done with this waste of his time. This time, it was Abbey who said, "Wait," before he could get to the door.

"If he does call me," she started softly, "I don't want to hurt his feelings. If he does call me, would it be better to say no, or say yes and tell him…about just being friends?" Sherlock didn't seem disposed to understand human nature very well, except as it related to motives for killing, she supposed, but he did seem to care about John. She would bow to his superior understanding of John.

"He'd be fine. There are plenty more Abbeys where you came from."

And he swept away, leaving her crushed under the weight of her own normality and insignificance. She'd never even gotten her cuppa. She leaned back in her seat and tried not to cry, because she was a grown woman and she had it on good authority that grown women didn't cry, especially not in public. So instead, she raised her hand to the waiter who had given her and Sherlock a wide berth, and she ordered some tea.

After all, she was British, wasn't she?

* * *

><p>Nineteen hours later, John called. Abbey should have realized last time around that he was the type to call a girl for a date, not text. It was a Saturday, so she was at home, checking her pantry for Milanos for the fifth time, because she can't have really eaten both packages in three days, can she have?<p>

"Hello?" she said distractedly into her phone as she pushes half-empty spaghetti boxes and dusty cans of cream of mushroom soup that she always thought she would need but never seemed to use.

"Hi, Abbey? It's John. John Watson?"

"Is that a question or a statement, John?" He laughed, and she smiled despite herself; despite how sort of royally fucked up the situation with John and/or Sherlock was, John was so nice.

"It's a statement, although some days Sherlock has me feeling so stark raving mad that I'm not sure who I am," he replied affably. Her smile dropped away. She turned around and sat at her kitchen table, feet up in the opposite chair.

"I bet it's a trial living with a bloke like that." On the other end of the line, John choked. "What?"

"Sorry, it's just, I'm not sure I've ever heard anyone call Sherlock a _bloke_ before. It's…odd. It implies gender."

"Uh, did I miss something? Is he not in fact male?"

"No, he's got the male bits, but he's sort of not like other people." Now it's Abbey choking.

"Yeah, I sort of figured that one out for myself."

"I suppose it's hard to miss. I just meant that he's sort of like a walking brain. Not too worried about his bits, or girls' bits, or sports." His baritone voice and confident stride didn't exude _walking brain_, it exuded _I could have you on the floor and panting for me in ten seconds flat_. Wrong thoughts to be having while on the phone with his flatmate—_so_ the wrong thoughts! "But anyway, I didn't call to talk about Sherlock. How does my life always end up being about him?" he mumbled in what she guessed was exasperation.

"Sorry, what did you need?" she asked in her best pleasant voice.

"That cuppa you came round for? I was wondering if you were busy later today. I know a little place—"

"John," Abbey interrupted, feeling very much like she had to clear the air this instant or she'd choke on it, "I actually wanted to tell you something."

"Oh?" His one-syllable response was indecipherable.

"I would love to go for tea with you, but I wanted you to know that it wasn't for, um. Well, I didn't want—" she trailed off. What the hell was she even trying to say? Sherlock had convinced her that John did, in fact, want to date her, but now, trying to let him down easy when he hadn't even _really_ asked her out, she felt ridiculous and presumptuous.

"Let me put my impressive powers of deduction to use," he started dryly. "You'd love to be friends, but you just don't see me that way. Funny, they usually give me one date before they decide I'm friend material." She tamped down the small spark of irritation that threatened to burn out her guilt when he said 'they', reminding her that there were tons more Abbeys where she came from.

"Look, John, do you want me to be honest with you?"

"God, yes, that would be refreshing." She smiled to herself; if only she had met John with no Sherlock around. Maybe she could have fallen for those baby blues and easy jokes and, hey, doctor. That's always a plus.

"I imagine you're a fantastic guy, and if I had any sense at all I would be begging you to have dinner with me. Unfortunately, I seem to have some sort of complex where I adore emotionally unavailable, brilliant men. So, you see—"

"Sherlock. Really, how does my life always end up being about him?"

"I'm sorry, John. If it's any consolation, he's assured me there are lots more Abbeys where I came from." Man, she really couldn't let that go, could she?

"Was this when you came by the flat?"

"No, it was later, when I went to Angelo's thinking I was meeting you, but really it was Sherlock's sting operation. He quite pointedly told me to piss off and stay away from his precious little John," she said, laughing. It sounded silly, saying it out loud.

"I'll kill him. I really will."

"Oh, don't. It was really quite sweet. The part where he was protecting you. The parts where it was mostly out of self-interest and where he informed me that I was deceitful and trivial were less sweet."

"I'll call Mycroft and provoke Sherlock into calling him fat, so Mycroft will have him assassinated and I'll get off scot-free." She had no idea what he was saying, but she laughed. She wasn't sure what to say next when he continued, his mostly affected murderous rage tone gone, "Honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't stolen more birds from me already. I mean, he's always had Molly hanging off him, but I guess he insults most of them before they can get sufficiently goggly-eyed over his cheekbones and coat collar."

"Does he not have girls throwing themselves at him all the time?" It was absolutely horrible that she was fishing for information about Sherlock after just having turned down a sort-of-date from John. She was tracing invisible patterns on her white tabletop with a finger whose slender elegance was ruined by the stubby nail whose chip had been chewed off too many times to count.

"Well, there was the Woman. But she was gay, I think, and sort of evil, but she had a thing for 'brainy', but anyway she's…gone now. And I guess women bat their eyes at him in passing, but he doesn't even stop to talk and give them the chance, so I don't think you'd call it throwing themselves at him." Molly, The Woman… their names (or lack thereof) were immediately added to her Hated Rival Bitch list. What? She wasn't above petty jealousy.

"Well, it's certainly a horrible idea to fancy the man, so I suppose it's a public service he's doing by brushing past and being rude. You, however, any woman should be delighted to fancy." She said it how she would say to her brother, a flattering truth.

"Comforting words, except they're from the girl who just turned me down." She didn't miss the fact that he called her 'girl', not 'woman' like those who'd batted their eyes, or, obviously, 'The Woman'. It stung to be so young and unimportant to the all the men she'd ever admired.

"You were too old for me, anyway," she said, hoping it wasn't too soon for friendly ribbing, and wasn't too obvious she was bitter.

"Yes, well, you're too human for Sherlock," he replied. Touché.

"I'm not trying to…you know. Get with Sherlock or anything. I know that's a fool's errand. It just didn't seem right to—"

"I know, Abbey. It was nice. Would've been nicer if you'd just thought Sherlock was a ponce and gone to tea with me, but…"

"I really am sorry, John. I know you're not all torn up about not having a cup of tea with some random girl you met once, but still…I'd much rather fancy you."

"I know you would. I'm a damn good boyfriend." She laughed and hoped that they could be friends, even though it was slightly strange to think of her twenty-four-year-old self being friends with a fortyish surgeon-slash-detective.

"I know you would be," she parroted. He wished her well, and said maybe they'd talk some time, but she doubted it. Before he hung up, though, she couldn't resist a last parting shot, and she was curious.

"Hey, John?"

"Mm?"

"Did you really say I was 'shaggable'?" She blushed, but he didn't know that, so she laughed because she could be coy and bold when no one could see her blushing.

"The beauty of you rejecting me is that I have no compunctions whatsoever about hanging up on you without answering."

"I'll take that as a yes. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Bye, Abbey.

"Bye, John." It occurred to her after they hung up that she wasn't entirely sure that 'shaggable' was a compliment, now that she thought about it. Maybe it meant, 'I guess I'd shag her', which, if you bought into the pop culture view of men, didn't exactly take a feat of rare beauty to achieve. Or, it could mean what she had originally assumed- 'Hell yeah, I'd tap that'. For the sake of a good night's sleep, she decided to believe it was the latter.

She went to bed that night, feeling dissatisfied from her fruitless Milano search, but satisfied from the most pleasant conversation she'd had in a while. But it was still Sherlock's pale skin and dark curls that floated in her waking dreams as she drifted off.


	4. The Filler Chapter

_Focus on work_. _You have a great job—you love your job!_ The pep talk's effectiveness was inversely proportional to the frequency with which she gave it, so when she hit the every fifteen minutes mark, Abbey was feeling pretty much like those strains of uberbacteria that have been hardened by exposure to antibacterial soaps and antibiotic medicines—pretty impervious.

Justin wandered over to her desk after her millionth sigh of the day, as she was reformatting a spreadsheet she hadn't fiddled with almost a whole week. She thought the Copperplate Special was better for the title than Blair MdITC. Plus should it be 20pt or 22pt? And should the margins be .5in or did .65 look so much neater? But then it'd decrease the size of the spreadsheet itself by 3%. Was it worth it?

_You love your job!_

"Hey, Abs. You doin' okay over here?"

"Yep, just making sure these worksheets are up-to-date." She didn't _think_ they'd cut her hours just because she had nothing to do, but she couldn't be sure.

"That's why you're so great. Always staying on top of things," he said with a smile like she was an indispensable employee. She felt a little guilty pretending she was doing something important and not just inventing things to do to fill her time, but mostly she felt…lame. Very disposable, very unimpressive, very unfulfilled.

What was she doing with her life? She took this job because it was the only thing for which she was even remotely qualified at the time, with the promise that she'd keep looking. "For what?" everyone would say. "What kind of job are you looking for?" …Was every grad trolling job sites, narrowing their searches by job title for Medical Billing Assistant, or Executive Assistant? She narrowed her search by miles from her house and applied for anything that she had a conceivable shot of being considered for. No dream job (or even specifically desired in-the-meantime-job) for Abbey. Besides maybe international spy. Or accidental space traveler (she'd be picked up by mistake by a pair of goofy aliens that always messed up their job, much to the chagrin of their ruggedly handsome, but reluctant to love, captain, who would eventually be charmed by her Earthly ways, after she had overcome her sorrow to be stripped from her homeworld and embraced her exciting new life of space exploration).

But here she was, two years later, still a glorified secretary, and it had been months since she'd even been to a job site. Brains and talent didn't mean much in this economy when you had zero useful experience and no special training.

She tried to think of her dream job. No holds barred (well, she chucked out any possibilities that required alien presence, magic, or a penchant for killing), what could she be blissfully happy doing?

First thought: heiress.

Second thought: housewife to millionaire.

Third thought: housewife to billionaire.

Fourth thought: adventurer. She wanted to be like Sherlock (_damnit, we said we weren't going to think about that douche!)_, making her own rules, doing what interested her at the moment. No 8 to 4 job with a few days of vacation, doing the same things over and over again until you thought your brain would dry up from lack of use. The problem was…that sort of wasn't a job. She'd have to be a genius amateur detective, tomb raider, famous overseas correspondent or…something equally ridiculous and impossible.

What was her next best option?

She'd probably stay at her job, but get a cat. A cat would add meaning to her life, right?

So, it turned out that cats need litter boxes, and that those litter boxes need to be cleaned quite frequently. She wasn't sure if she was ready for that kind of commitment… maybe she'd just go pick out a fluffy stuffed animal. She picked up her cell phone and opened a new text message.

Hey, Myra. Wanna go stuffed animal shopping with me?

Jesus, get a body pillow, some men's cologne, and a vibrator and call it quits.

_Sent from Myra's iPhone._

I hate you…

A/N Short and boring, but important.


	5. Red

It was all so ridiculous you'd have thought she'd invented the whole thing as a ploy to see Sherlock, not unlike her musings weeks earlier about The Case of the Missing Stapler. Except that in this case she would have had to have been a murderer. Which she wasn't. But it was so ridiculous. There was so much blood. She'd have to clean her drapes. Abbey thought again how funny it was to see Sherlock in her kitchen. It would have been so nice, except….

It was a good thing she'd gotten a giant fuzzy bear (oh no, unless Sherlock went into her bedroom. Oh God what if Sherlock went into her bedroom!) instead of a cat, because she'd heard that cats eat—

She choked back the urge to gag and turned away from the blood. But seeing the bare walls she'd never gotten around to decorating for more than a minute made them start to swim and the edges of her vision grayed, so she turned back to Sherlock. Sherlock would solve it. Sherlock would fix it. She was safe with Sherlock on the case.

Her brain gave a feeble attempt at a daydream with Sherlock cast as the daring hero and her the strong young woman in need of momentary assistance (damsels in distress aren't kosher these days), but it died in its infancy, drowned in blood.

"Abbey?"

"It wasn't me." The response came out without any conscious instruction from her mind, and she winced. She blinked and wondered what time it was. It appeared she had been staring at her blank television for over an hour. John had shaken her out of it.

"Um, no, I don't think you're a prime suspect at the moment," John said slowly. If he tried to put one of those horrible shock blankets on her, she was going to flip a lid. He had the _give me one moment while I go find a crazy person blanket for you, crazy lady_ look on.

"I just meant… nothing."

"Abbey. No one thinks you intentionally involved yourself in a murder case, in your own apartment, just to see Sherlock." Abbey turned her head away from the insightful eyes. People were normally so thick; they couldn't see anything. They blundered through life with no vision, no thoughtfulness, no tact.

Until you wanted to hide far from prying eyes, curl in a ball where no one could see that you weren't okay, not one bit. And then suddenly you'll be surrounded by people who delight in saying the things that are supposed to stay unsaid.

"Of course I didn't murder someone to see Sherlock, are you _mad_, John Watson?" Anger or hysteria, either one was something she didn't want her voice and expression to contain, but she was very much afraid that they contained both.

"No, Abbey, I know. I was just saying so. Nobody thinks that. You need to find a place to get some rest. Do you have someplace to go, Abbey?"

"Yes, of course I have. I've got family, haven't I? What does Sherlock think?"

"Um, I think he's a little absorbed in the case, Abbey, I'm not sure he's thought about your family—"

"About the case, John, not my living arrangements. And stop saying my name over and over. It's disconcerting. I'm not in need of counseling or anything."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"What's he think?" John looked at her silently for a moment before clearing his throat and answering.

"Well, I guess you did miss his whole I'm Sherlock Holmes and I Know Everything Listen to Me Go speech." She had? That was a—well. Best she stay out of the kitchen for now anyway. "He's got some theories. I don't think you need to worry about anything right now. Go to your parents' and have a cuppa. I'll ring when we know something."

Abbey woke. Where was she? Oh. Her parents'. Right. She had come by…cab? And she had told them about the…crime. Right? And they had made her tea. And she went to bed in her old room. Still a muted lavender so grey it was almost depressing. She was rebelling against her natural love of soft, feminine colors as a teenager and had chosen a mutant hybrid of feminine and dull. What a stupid thing to do. She should have just chosen a soft periwinkle color. Like waking in a field of heather, looking at the sky, every morning.

Try as she might to fill her mind's eye with comforting, clear blue skies, she could not hold back the dark sunset that splashed red in her vision. She huddled under her blanket. The boogeyman couldn't get her there as a child. It was still good enough for her.

But it wasn't good enough for her bladder, so she crawled out from under the pale orange bedspread her mother had replaced her old grey duvet with, and limped to the bathroom. One of her legs had fallen asleep in all her huddling. She did her business and avoided the mirror as she undressed for the shower. Hot showers made her feel better when she felt ill, so it's the best guess she has for making the hole in her chest disappear.

The steam hits her lungs and the thoughts chase after it, heading straight for her reluctant brain.

How could this be happening? She'd done everything more or less right. Good grades, college, protected sex in a monogamous relationship, no drugs, not very many drunken experiences, a decent job. How did a stranger end up in her apartment with his throat slit in the time it took her to go get her hair tinted auburn at the reasonably priced salon whose services, it turns out, are overpriced for their value, so she would have been better off going to an expensive salon?

She rubbed the color-enhancing shampoo into the roots of her hair and began to rinse after a minute. She tilted her eyes back and closed her eyes to get her hairline fully rinsed. When she opened them, the floor of the tub was stained red and her heart stopped in her chest. Her hands, clawed in terror, shot out to the sides of the shower and when her left met nothing but thin vinyl and air, she fell.

She pulled the curtain and rod down with her, and though her head just missed cracking itself on the sloped ceramic side of the tub, the rod thumped her skull with its hefty end and her shoulder connected with the edge of the tub. The agony was intense and she cried out, tears immediately pouring out of her.

When her mother and father didn't immediately burst through the door, she realized they were out at work, and she was alone in the house with a dislocated shoulder, sitting naked in a tub stained red with useless hair tint the color of blood. The tears didn't feel like those of pain anymore. They felt like _what in fucking hell am I supposed to do now, my life is in shambles_ tears. After a minute the sobs gave her hiccups, which wracked her shoulder and she tried to get a grip. Sitting up was mostly unsuccessful, but marginally useful as it allowed her to see she had left her phone by the sink the night before.

Thank God she had a smartphone.

"Call…" she trailed off. Who could she call? "John Watson." The phone beeped. "Calling—John Watson".

"Hello, Abbey. Look, we're on a lead righ—Abbey? What's wrong?" The sobs must have been making it hard for him to concentrate.

"John," she started, but she had unconsciously leaned toward the phone with the word, and the pain was intense. The red was everywhere. "John, please come get me," she begged.

"Shit, Abbey, what's wrong? Are you okay? Are you still at your parents'? What's happened, damnit!" It was almost the hardest thing she had ever done, but she managed to contain her hysteria long enough to say, "I'm at my parents', I—I've fall—fallen. Hurt my shoulder. Everything's…red…John, please." The tears were now mortified and desperate _life in shambles_ tears.

Every shake hurt her shoulder, but the relief of the howling weeping somehow outweighed the pain, and she carried on, long after John had disconnected with advice to stay still and calm, he was on the way.

Dr. Watson was on the way.

A/N I don't have a smartphone, and I don't care if they don't work that way. Get over it. I know what you're thinking. What? Mystery? But this is a romance story! Yeah, I know, right? I guess I figured I need a couple more plot, so there we are. We'll see how it goes.


	6. Savior

A/N You'll be happy to know I shall neglect those couple more plot I added last chapter in favor of fangirliness this chapter!

* * *

><p>It was either much longer or much quicker than she would have thought before Dr. Watson came bounding up the stairs to her rescue. Some of the worst howls had died down, and heavy breathing and steady tears were all that remained when he burst through the door.<p>

"Abbey—where are you hurt?" He knelt by the tub and immediately ripped away the frosted shower curtain she'd pulled to cover most of herself just minutes before. The sudden exposure hit her still-wet skin and she shivered with chill, making her wince and hiccup a sob. "Abbey! I need you to talk to me. Do you know where you are?" But all she could do was stare at him and blink out streams of tears, disbelieving that someone in so innocuous a sweater could be so commanding.

Then his hands were on her, and she breathed out, "Fine." He kept feeling around her stomach and legs, and she batted at his hands with her right hand. "Shoulder."

"I need you to tell me where you are hurt and if you're bleeding." He sniffed the air and added, "And what is that smell?"

"Dye."

"No, Abbey, you're fine, you're not dying, just please show me the source of the bleeding and—" She giggled. Just a little, and it hurt her shoulder, so she immediately winced, but there it was. Dr. Watson seemed perplexed by the giggle.

"Hair dye. No blood. Just dye. I fell and hurt my shoulder. Really hurts," she said. He stared at her a moment, before shaking his head and saying, "Alright then. All you'll really need is some help getting to the hospital, where they'll set your arm. It's not a complicated procedure; you'll be just fine."

"Wait…do I…" he looked at her expectantly and she swallowed her rationality and finished, "do I have to go to hospital? Can't you just do it here?"

"Abbey, you need pain medication and records, in case something happens. Besides, it's unseemly for a doctor to treat a friend. You never know what kind of botch-ups there can be." Her vessels seemed to dilate and fill with warm blood when he said 'friend' so simply like that, though they barely knew each other. A friend seemed like the most rare and precious thing on Earth to her right then, though she knew she had a phone full of contacts, Myras and parents and coworkers.

"I trust you," she said. "My dad has some oxycodone left from a procedure." She wasn't sure if looking pitiful would help her get her way with a doctor, but she gave it her best shot.

"Abbey. If you trust me, then trust my judgment as a doctor. I've done plenty of field work, and you'd definitely rather be in a hospital for this."

"You said all they would do is set it. Can't you?"

"I can, but—"

"Have you not done many?"

"Actually, I've done a lot, but—"

"Please. I can't stand police and doctors in the same day. Just…please don't make me." Dr. Watson sighed and reached a hand out to gently feel the state of her shoulder—until, without warning, he popped it back into place. She cried out and felt like doing something very horrible to him, but she couldn't think of anything very horrible right then, other than possibly dislocating his shoulder and then suddenly relocating it without notice.

"Ah, God, why would you DO that?" The intense pain was gone, but she still wouldn't have said she felt great, with the echo of the pain lingering in the strain of her shoulder muscles. Her head kept thumping on the tile behind her as she tried to ride out the discomfort.

"Sorry. It's better when you don't know it's coming."

"Yeah, just remember you said that when I run you over."

"You have a car?"

"No, but I could steal one." He smiled and she was feeling better, so she smiled back. Then remembered she was naked and promptly freaked out.

"Oh, God, get out!" He looked confused, but he frowned when she scrabbled to get the curtain back over herself.

"Don't be silly. I'm a doctor. Besides, we need to rinse that dye off you and get you back in bed. You need rest, and tubs aren't great for, you know…rest. So come on, now, up you go." She was shaking her head. Sure, she could afford to forego modesty with a dislocated shoulder, but now all she had was a throbbing shoulder, so. Modesty and/or shame was back in full force.

"Again. Doctor."

"Yeah, doctor who asked me on a date and is investigating the murder which took place in my apartment. Not exactly a random, asexual doctor."

"Well, if you want asexual, I can call Sherlock over." John was smiling. Abbey wanted to smile, too, but it was hard to smile when your hands were covering your wet nipples and you were hoping that your tightly pinned thighs were hiding the bush you hadn't weeded recently. He sighed.

"Fair point. But I know how this friend zone thing works; you get your sheets all covered in dye, I'll be the one you call to do your laundry for you because your shoulder's hurt. Now, up we get. Quick rinse, then we're done."

"I can rinse myself. Just help me up and then go get me some pajamas." She remembered her manners. "Please." He noticed her belated addendum and shook his head ruefully. Then he grabbed her around her waist and she squeaked.

Well, good Lord, what did you expect her to do? She hadn't been naked in front of a man since uni! That was three years ago! It was startling to just be sans clothes and on display and being touched all of a sudden.

It was obvious John was suppressing laughter as he hauled her upright, and she just managed to grab his shoulder for support and tried her hardest not to move her right arm. Once she was up and steady, she vigorously shooed him away and used her left hand to turn on the water. The water was lukewarm, and she used her toe to nudge the hot water knob to hothothot, which was blissful. Washing the cold droplets away and rinsing off the residue from the dye job she shouldn't have been washing yet felt good, but she turned off the spray after only a few minutes, feeling fatigued after her breakdown and injury.

Shutting off the water and trying to wring her hair with one hand, she realized her towel was in the bedroom.

She cleared her throat awkwardly. Um…"John?" Nothing. "Doctor?"

"Yeah?" he called from the next room. "There are no pajamas in here!" First things first, Abbey thought.

"Towel first, please!" A moment later, the door creaked open and a towel was unceremoniously chucked onto the bathroom floor. She thought about being wary about the now soiled towel, but her mother was nothing if not an obsessive housekeeper. The floor was probably cleaner than her counters, off which Abbey often ate.

She came to an impasse when trying to wrap the towel around herself, and settled on wiping the skin she could reach down, not wishing to move her shoulder—the tendons felt too far stretched, and she had visions of the muscles losing all elasticity if she tried to use them in their current state.

"Seriously. All these drawers have is mothballs and socks!" Since when were all her old clothes gone from her old room? Her mom must have been doing some spring cleaning. At least Abbey's bag had some pants she'd brought from the apartment. Abbey was never out of her wits enough to forget pants.

"Fine—just bring me my bag, please," she called back.

"Do you have clothes in it?"

"Just underthings," she said, blushing for some reason. She heard rustling, then her bag was gently chucked in, followed by something white. She carefully stepped out of the tub, and picked up the white thing.

It was an undershirt. She smelled it. She wasn't entirely sure what John smelled like, but she could easily imagine him smelling like the clean, manly scent of the tee. She put it on and decided not to feel weird about it.

Then she launched the heroic task of pulling up her pants with one hand, and felt right exhausted by the end of all the one-handed madness. So as soon as she was officially pants-ed, she stepped out to the bedroom, even though her pants-covered arse was not at all covered by John's shirt.

He was a doctor, right?

And she was tired.

So it was fine.

She creaked the door open and stepped out, damp towel in her left hand. Feeling awkward, she held it out to John. He took it and she gestured to her hair.

"Sorry, it's like a sponge and I can't get in bed like this." He shook his head- no problem. He slowly guided her to sit on the bed and gently started patting down her hair. She was surprised at him, and her face felt warm. Clearing her throat, wondering what to say to her savior-turned-hairdresser, he beat her to it.

"Alcoholic sister. You learn how to dry a girl's hair after washing the vomit out." He said it lightly, but the image made her unspeakably sad for a moment.

"I'm sorry." His hand stilled for a moment and she wondered if she'd been too personal or said the same thing everyone always says, which is a surefire way to irritate anyone. But after a long moment, "Yeah. Me, too. But what can you do?" She shrugged.

"Let her wake up with vomit in her hair?" She heard him laugh and then he was putting the towel down.

She wasn't sure how it happened, but after she had snuggled in and told him where the oxycodone was kept and been dosed and watered, she realized that she was holding his wrist, preventing him from going anywhere. He slowly sat back on the stool he'd pulled up minutes ago to inspect the state of her shoulder, shaking his a little, as if to say how do I get myself into these messes?

She felt like she should say something, maybe_ I don't normally act like this_ or please stay I can't bear to be alone or no sorry I'm being silly go solve that murder please. But she didn't say anything at all. The drugs took their hold and she drifted off to sleep, murmuring thanks and knowing it wasn't enough.

* * *

><p>AN Sorry guys. I have no excuse. Also please forgive typos; I wrote half this on my new (beloved) smartphone for some reason. I am eager to write the next few scenes so hopefully it won't take so long. Ta!


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